TINA, the Little Lacemaker
by Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
Chapter 1
This story was published in 1910 by A. L. Burt Publishers. A friend gave me the book, one he'd found in a box of books he'd bought at an auction. I thought it would be fun to serialize it for the PLG newsletter, so the whole group can enjoy it. I'm not going to tell you how it all comes out-you'll just have to keep reading the future installments!
CHAPTER 1. SEEKING EMPLOYMENT.
"A lady to see Monsieur La Fort."
Monsieur La Fort, proprietor of a thriving lace manufactory on Rue St. Honore, Brussels, looked up from his desk of ebony inlaid with pearl, as the door to his luxurious office swung open, and the boy made the above announcement, and then stood aside for a young girl to pass in.
Monsieur saw, with a slight start of surprise, the loveliest face in the world-a face that flushed slightly as he bent his earnest, curious gaze upon it; and the least haughty uplifting of the small, shapely head, with its bright, waving brown hair, warned him that though the lady was both young and unattended, a circumstance which he did not fail to observe, she did not lack spirit or independence to carry her through an interview with him, or, indeed, with any one, however imposing his presence or surroundings might be.
The lace manufacturer's first expression had been one of annoyance at the interruption, for he had been busily engaged considering an important order; but his brow involuntarily relaxed as he met those brown eyes looking so gravely and calmly into his; as he marked the sweet mouth, around whose delicate lips, bright as a maple-leaf after its first frost-kiss, there played the least tremulousness of anxiety; as he noted the white, graceful throat with its knot of pale pink fastening the neat collar, and which lent a tinge of color to the round, smooth cheek; the straight, slender figure in its closely fitting garments of dark cloth, and the small, shapely hands, with their neatly fitting gloves, that matched her dress with characteristic French exactness.
The gallant Frenchman arose with alacrity from his velvet chair, and came forward with a bow such as only a Frenchman knows how to make. "How can I serve mademoiselle?" he asked, politely.
"Monsieur has need of help in his lace factory-1 seek employment," was the response, in clear, sweet tones, while the tint deepened upon the maiden's cheek, as she pointed to an advertisement in the paper which she carried in her hand.
"Mon Dieu! I was sure she was some aristocrat come to give an order," monsieur mentally ejaculated, while his suave bearing underwent a sudden change.
The smile faded from his face, and though the look of admiration did not die out of his eyes, as they still rested on the girl's beautiful countenance, yet the pompous manner with which he received her application plainly indicated that there was a vast difference in his estimation between one suing for a favor and one giving an order for his expensive laces.
"Um! Yes, we need help; but we wish only experienced help. Do you understand lace-making?" monsieur responded, with a doubtful glance at her daintily gloved hands.
"I have made lace since childhood. Will monsieur examine some of my work?" and the girl extended her wrist, around which was gathered a ruffle of soft fine lace of a graceful, delicate pattern.
Monsieur La Fort reached out his white hand and took hers, ostensibly to examine the pretty trifle, but with a familiarity that brought the rich blood surging into the fair face before him.
She drew back from him with a haughty gesture.
"Perhaps monsieur can examine this more to his satisfaction," she said, drawing from one of the pockets of her jacket a bewitching little handkerchief edged with Valenciennes.
The manufacturer's white teeth gleamed in a smile that was a trifle sinister at the act, but he took the dainty fabric and examined the edge critically. It was very fine, and a lovely pattern.
"Did you make this?" he asked, in a tone of surprise, and bending a searching glance upon her. "Yes, monsieur," was the brief, somewhat cold response. "Where were you taught?" "In my own home, monsieur."
"Ah, mademoiselle's mother, perhaps, was a lacemaker, and you were brought up to it?" remarked the inquisitive manufacturer.
Mademoiselle made no reply, and neither her manner nor bearing was favorable to further questioning, as she stood awaiting his decision regarding her work.
Monsieur La Fort flushed at this silent rebuff, but his tone was a trifle more respectful as he continued:
"Mademoiselle will please give me her name." The young girl gravely drew forth her purse-a pretty and expensive trifle, her observer thought, for one craving employment-and, taking a card from it, placed it in his hand." "Cards! Mon Dieu!" the manufacturer again mentally ejaculated, with arching eyebrows, "our pretty applicant assumes the airs of les grande dames." But he read, written in a delicate, flowing hand, the name-"Netina Florienz." "A pretty name for the pretty maid," soliloquized monsieur, as his eyes traveled from that bit of pasteboard to the sweet face before him, and then back again, while he turned the question, whether to engage her or not, over in his mind. Absently he turned the card over, and saw these words written on the back of it:
"MARIE:-Pray let me come to you. I can now explain everything satisfactorily. TINA."
"Tina! Ah, that is sweeter yet!" he thought, and again his eyes sought the beautiful face opposite him.
He was startled at the change he saw there.
The young girl had grown suddenly white as a snow-drift, while her brown eyes were fixed with a frightened look upon the words he had just been reading.
"Pardon, monsieur," she said, in trembling tones, as she reached out her hand and took the card from him. "I was not aware that anything was written upon the card."
With one quick glance she took in the simple words, and heaved a sigh of relief as she saw the apparently insignificant sentence penciled there.
But Monsieur La Forte had made a note of her emotion; it told him that she had something to conceal.
"There is a mystery here," he thought; "this pretty one, with the manner of a queen, with her lovely face, her pure French and cultivated language, is not what she would appear. It is a puzzle that I must solve.
"You are Mademoiselle Florienz, then," he said, and referring with a look to her card again. She bowed assent. "Your residence?" he questioned. "At present in Brussels."
Monsieur La Fort smiled at her reply. It told him nothing.
"Your lace is very fine, the threads are very evenly laid," he continued, after a moment's thought, and returning her handkerchief, which, he noticed, emitted a faint odor of heliotrope. "We need help, as I have said; but it must be experienced help. Will you come into the work-room and show me how well you can handle the bobbins? One of our women is absent, and I will test your ability at her pillow."
Mademoiselle Florienz bowed assent, while a little smile of amusement twinkled in her eyes, and dimpled the corners of her mouth. She was conscious of her ability to perform, and there was no reluctance in her manner as he asked her to prove what she could do.
She drew off her gloves preparatory to accompanying the manufacturer to the work-room, and that quick-sighted individual remarked that her hands were dainty as a queen's-white and soft, with no mark or stain of labor on them, while the finger-tips were round and smooth, and pink like the heart of a sea-shell.
At this moment the door opened again, and in darted a small, shriveled, queer-looking creature, like a gust of wind from some northern mountain.
She was old and wrinkled, sunbumed and freckled, as if she was accustomed to being out in all kinds of weather, while she was clad in the plainest and oldest-fashioned garments imaginable.
She did not see Mademoiselle Florienz at first, but dashed up to Monsieur La Fort, and said in shrill, rapid tones:
"Well, you told me not to come again for a week, but the work's done, and I cannot be idle; I must have more," and she unfolded several meters of coarse lace from a napkin as she spoke.
"Ah, madam, you will flood the market, if you work at this rate," monsieur responded, making a wry face, as he examined her work.
"Who cares, so that the poor fools who like such trumpery get it, and I have my money for making it?" she answered, sharply, while her keen eyes watched him narrowly, as he measured off the lace meter by meter.
"But you will break me, madam, at this rate. I shall not have money enough to pay you," laughed her employer, who evidently enjoyed chaffing her.
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